His Watson
by Laila Space
Summary: A case gone wrong. An injured detective. A worried doctor. What more need I say. Pwease R&R. Reviews mean love. I need some love. : ) Epilogue up. NO SLASH. EDIT : To the guest who asked if they can translate and publish my work : Go ahead. I'd be honored.
1. Chapter 1

It was just another normal day. Atleast as normal as it gets in the life of one Sherlock Holmes.

His feet slapped the wet cobblestones as Holmes ran in pursuit of Tobby Montgomery, the murderer who had claimed the lives of eighteen people. The murderer who was to become the victim thanks to the brilliance of the greatest detective in all of England.

Holmes rounded the alley and came face to face with the criminal. Fortunately the murderer was cornered cutting off his plans to escape. But unfortunately he had a revolver pointed at Holmes' face while Holmes did not have his.

For all his brilliance, thought Holmes, how he managed to forget his revolver(again), he would never know. But he was not greatly worried as he was sure that John Watson, his doctor and friend, was just moments behind him. All he had to do was buy some time.

"Finally caught up with me, have you detective?" Montgomery sneered.

"So it seems. Not that you were clever at hiding from me. Tell me Montgomery how long do you think you'll be in prison? I'll wager about twenty years. Though the people's choice obviously will be to hang you..." Holmes smirked, seeing the anger clouding in the monster's eyes.

"Shut up" roared Montgomery "I shall enjoy watching you die a slow painful death. As for me I shall not go to prison. For after I kill you I plan on making an escape through personal allies of mine"

"Oh don't be so sure on that. I assure you that you will atleast rot in some dark, dingy cell for the atrocities you have commited" Holmes retorted.

 _But now he knew he had gone too far as a two shots rang out. He felt something impact on his stomach. But hadn't there been two shots? Was he hit somewhere else?_ Even the fact that his blood was now gushing down his did not deter the detective from deeply and thoroughly analyzing the facts.

Just then the sound of a body falling to the ground drew his gaze from his wound to the murderer's lifeless body in front.

 _So one shot hit his stomach and the other hit Tobby Montgomery. But the shots were simultaneous. So ... so he can't have killed himself , right? Ugh, why was it taking so long to figure it out. That left one shot. It must have been fired by..._

Slowly his knees gave out and he would have fallen to the cold ground, had it not been for a pair of strong arms that caught him from behind and lowered him gently to the ground.

His failing eyesight informed him that his savior was Watson.

"Holmes can you hear me? Answers me old chap." Watson asked, slapping Holmes' cheek for a response.

"Wassn..." Hmm why wasn't his tongue cooperating? He meant to say Watson but it had come out badly slurred. Had he been drinking. If that was so then why was there a pain in his stomach? Maybe he should rest. Yes. It would be nice to sleep.

"Holmes. Stay with me, old boy. Stay awake" Holmes was rudely awaken by Watson shaking him.

"Wassn...tired" was all that came out when Holmes tried to explain his predicament. He was growing confused now. _Why was he not able to speak I'm full sentences?_

"I know, Holmes. But you can't sleep yet. You've lost too much blood" Watson's face was filled with concern and fear.

Holmes pondered why Watson was concerned until an agonizing pain distracted him from the query. His back arched and he would have screamed had his vocal cord not chosen that moment to disobey him. He clawed the ground, seeking an escape from the pain. The cause to the sudden pain was suddenly clear as Watson removed a now blood soaked jacket (Watson's own, Holmes noticed) from his wound.

"Holmes, focus on me. Don't go to sleep. Lestrade will be here any moment now ad we'll be back at home soon, alright?" Watson said soothingly, hoping to keep Holmes awake.

"Hurrs Watson. Make it stop" Holmes gasped.

"Sshh, it'll go away soon. Trust me" Watson continued to comfort Holmes.

But the sleepless nights, the chase and now the blood loss had taken its toll on Holmes. His last drifting thought was his Watson's voice telling him that it's alright. His dear Watson.


	2. Chapter 2

_It was an earthquake. What else could it be? The very floor was trembling violently._ But the sensible part of his mind could discern the distant clatter of wheels. _And also the quaking seemed to be strangely regular._

 _So that meant that he was in a carriage. That was strange. He did not know where he was going. Actually, he did not remember having gotten into the carriage in the first place._

Slowly he became aware that he was lying down on one of the seats of the carriage and that someone was holding his hands and whispering. Whispering nonsense. Or was it?

". . . go, old boy. I never thought I would be saying this but you are my best friend. I don't know what I would do without you. Please old boy, just don't die. Hold on"

 _There was a slight tremor to that beloved, dear voice. The voice of his Watson. Oh how he longed to comfort him. But he was just so sleepy. Opening his eyes would be too tiring._

Just then a sob was torn from Watson. That did it. With every ounce of his strength, Holmes opened his eyes.

" 'm not goin' to die, ol' boy" croaked Holmes.

The change in Watson was drastic. His eyes, bloodshot from crying, widened to the size of tiny golf balls. His mouth dropped open. And the 'Holmes' he uttered was filled with happiness and renewed hope.

"Oh Holmes. Thank God. I thought I had lost you for a moment there, old cock. Just hold on. We'll be in Baker Street in a moment and then I can treat you. Then it's bed rest for as long as I say. Do you hear me, old boy?"

"O' course. Don' fret mother hen"

The earthquake ... Carriage, he reminded himself,stopped. With the help of Watson he sat up. His wound screamed in agony and he couldn't hold back a whimper.

"Hush dear boy. Slowly now. And let me do all the work." Watson soothed gently.

The descent from the carriage seemed to take forever. But finally with the help of Watson and the cab driver (whom Watson tipped generously) Holmes stood swaying on the pavement.

Watson's arm around his waist was all that kept him from crumpling to the ground. The progress to the front door of 221 B was a haze of pain and vertigo, to Holmes.

The front door was opened at the first knock by , whose eyes were filled with genuine worry.

She trailed behind to fetch anything the doctor requested. Watson half carried, half dragged Holmes up the seventeen stairs and into their sitting room.

Maneuvering Holmes around the usual mess that littered their Holmes took a whole lot of effort. But at last they reached the couch and Watson gently lowered Holmes into it.

"My medical kit, a basin and a bowl of warm water if you please. And also something strengthening after an hour, for Holmes" Watson said to .

With a quick nod of acquiescence the landlady left.

By now Holmes was pale and covered with sweat. Watson made him as comfortable as he could and settled down to wait for the requested items. He let Holmes rest before he could start with what would surely be a painful process.


	3. Chapter 3

The landlady came in with Watson's medical bag, a basin and the bowl of water. Setting it on the table beside the couch, she spared a worried look to Holmes before hurrying off to prepare something for Holmes.

The doctor laid out the instruments, readying them for the surgery.

He injected a liberal amount of morphine into the detective's arm and waited until Holmes relaxed. Slowly he cut off Holmes' shirt to reveal the bloody wound.

Watson washed it with the warm water and cleaned it with the disinfectant from his bag. But the doctor knew that a fever was sure to come, what with the length of time that had passed between the wounding and the treatment.

With trained eyes and hands he searched for the bullet. At last he found it and quickly removed it with the help of the clean tweezers.

He dropped the bullet onto the table nearby.

Carefully he threaded a piece of thread through the suturing needle. Gently he pinched the wound and started to stitch it.

At one time Watson had to stop as Holmes moaned softly, twitching slightly. A whimper and a barely heard "Wassn" escaped his lips. But Watson's " Sshh Holmes. It's alright. I'm here. Just sleep" succeeded in soothing him.

Soon the wound was stitched up and bandaged. And the patient was sleeping as only a child could.

Watson himself was exhausted but drew up a chair and sat down to keep watch over Holmes. He was loathe to move the detective to the bedroom, as he already looked comfortable and was sleeping peacefully.

The doctor took Holmes' pulse again and by the time he finished counting, he was asleep in the chair. Their hands remained interlocked.

SH...JW...SH...JW...SH...JW...SH

He was running. Of that he was sure. But the question was 'why'. He stopped running and turned around in a full circle to gather information from his surroundings.

Trouble was that he couldn't gather much. The only thing he could gather was that it was black. Pitch black.

He could not even see his hands if he raised them in front of his face. He tried to call out. "Hello. Is anybody there?"

No answer.

So this was why he was running! To escape the darkness. Maybe he should continue. And so he started running again.

Only, this time he could see the faint pinprick of light. He ran faster. It grew brighter.

But as it grew brighter he also felt pain. Especially in his stomach. It grew to the extent that he fell to the ground with a moan.

A whimper escaped him. And he called out again. But this time he called his best and only friend. He called the man who had always kept him from sinking into darkness.

"Watson"

And this time there was an answer.

A voice. His dear Watson's voice.

" Sshh Holmes. It's alright. I'm here. Just sleep"

And so he did.


	4. Sorry guys

Hi guys, sorry this isn't an update. I know I haven't written in a while.

* _Dodges eggs and rotten tomatoes*_

And thankyou for all those people who favourited, followed and reviewed. And also those who have just read the story.

I've been busy with school and things and life in general. But I think I'll be posting in a couple of weeks. So keep your fingers crossed.

So, sorry again and an advance Merry Christmas and a Happy new year.


	5. Chapter 4

He was drifting. Drifting on the edge of consciousness. As much as he wanted to go back to that unawareness, there was a small niggling feeling of worry. Of missing something important. Oh how he despised these instances. Although quite familiar with them, Watson was not really a fan of them. Hangovers, recovering from that old war wound of his, recovering from new wounds which were the results of his escapades with Holmes or somet -

 _Holmes!_

With that Watson sat upright in the uncomfortable armchair he had quite unknowingly slept in. He looked towards the bed where Holmes was sleeping peacefully.

Well, 'peaceful' might have been a bit of an overstatement. Even in the dim light of the single candle, Watson could make out the stark whiteness of the detective's skin. His breathing was more of a rasping than a healthy breath. The bedsheets, soaked with sweat, were twisted and tangled about the man's feet. Holmes was shivering and restless, trying to gain a comfortable position. Which was nigh near impossible with the burning fever.

Watson had suspected such an outcome and had prepared for it. Grabbing a fresh blanket and a basin of cold water, he covered Holmes with the blanket and soaked a piece of cloth in the water.

Gently he wiped Holmes' face and neck with the wet cloth. Holmes turned towards the coolness with a moan even though the shivering had not abated.

The once clear brown eyes opened halfway and Holmes looked at Watson through glassy eyes.

"Wa ... son. Cold" this was said in a rasping whisper.

"Sshh. I know, old boy" Watson replied, adjusting the blanket so that it was wrapped snugly around the fevered form. "But you are running a fever and we have to get you cooled down. Now open your mouth for me. I must check your temperature."

Holmes opening his mouth without an argument was a sign of how miserable he was feeling.

Watson slipped his thermometer in Holmes mouth and waited for some time, praying that Holmes wouldn't dislodge it.

103.8 degrees.

Holmes whimpered, trying to push off the blanket. "Hot ..." he whispered.

"Sshh, it's alright. But you have to stay covered. " So saying Watson wiped his face with the newly wetted cloth.

"Sor...ry. Please...don' go. No...please. so sorry. Not Wat...son. Not... Watson. Watson... WATSON...STAY." the last was said in a distressed shout. Holmes twisted in the throes of hallucinations brought on by the raging fever.

"Sshhh. It's alright Holmes. I'm here. I won't leave you. You'll be alright. I'll be here, old cock. Don't worry." Watson carded his fingers through his friend's sweat soaked hair, whispering soothingly until he fell into a restless sleep.


	6. chapter 5

_Hi guys. Sorry for the looooooooong wait. I've finally written another chapter after my imagination came back. So as a gift, a long-ish chapter. Hope its not too bad. Don't forget to read and review._ _And also Thankyou for all those wonderful people who have read, favourited, followed and reviewed the story. You are the reason to my happiness. Thankyou very much. I love you guys : )_ _Now on with the story ..._

SH ... JW ... SH ... JW ... SH ... JW ... SH

Watson stretched, wincing as his muscles pulled. Dozing in an armchair, however comfortable, does that to a man.

Rubbing his sore neck, he stood up. His eyes drifted over to Holmes, taking in the unhealthy paleness and sweat drenched features of his best friend. A slight frown marred Holmes face but otherwise he looked to be resting as peacefully as can be expected.

Making up his mind that leaving Holmes alone for a few minutes wouldn't kill him, he walked to the loo. After finishing his business, he washed his hands and looked into his bed room to collect some things that could be of use while tending to Holmes and piled them into a suitable bag.

Their dear old landlady had left a pitcher of tea and a plate of cookies. Smiling to himself, Watson picked it up and closed the door behind him.

Making his way toward Holmes' bedroom he

dropped the bag near the doorway and proceeded to place the tray on the bedside table quietly so as not to disturb Holmes.

Only . . . the bed was empty. Holmes, who had been sleeping on the bed not a few minutes back, was not there.

SH ... JW ... SH ... JW ... SH ... JW ... SH

 _Something had changed. He could feel it. The warmth had left. Now it was all cold and dark._

Holmes opened his eyes slowly and stared at the slowly spinning ceiling. Turning his head, he could see that Watson was no longer there.

He tried calling him. But he got no further than "Wat ... " when his throat clenched. He attempted to clear his throat, only succeeding in sending tendrils of pain shooting through it.

 _He needed Watson. He didn't know why. But he did. There was something important. But he couldn't remember it._

Holmes tried to push himself up on shaky arms. _Shaky ? Was he ill ?_ Before he could contemplate further a fiery pain in his stomach interrupted his thoughts.

Gasping, he looked down to see a row of neat stitches apparently holding together what must have been a gaping hole. He relaxed slightly knowing that it was his beloved doctor who must have patched him up.

 _But then where was he ? What if he had gone to capture Holmes' assailant ? What if he had left Holmes to take care of himself ? What if he was injured and trying to stitch himself up ? What if he was already d ..._

 _No. No, he couldn't be. No, Watson was safe. Wasn't he ? He had to ... to see Watson. To assure himself that his best friend was indeed safe._

Making up his mind, Holmes swung his feet to the ground and attempted to get up. This resulted in a flash of colours that swirled and twisted around him giving him a spectacular headache. Forcing down bile Holmes stood up and swayed alarmingly, barely managing to catch himself on the side table.

One foot in front of the other, Holmes said to himself.

One foot in front of the other.

It was slow going, but the determined detective managed to stumble the distance from the bed to the door in under five minutes.

Keeping one hand on the wall for balance and the other curled around his stomach, which was starting to burn painfully, he stumbled to the living room.

His blurred vision slowly took in the room and searched for Watson. Now starting to panic, Holmes called out again to Watson hoarsely. Or at least tried to.

His protesting throat led him to a coughing fit which further agonized his pain.

Just as he was contemplating if he should perhaps sit down and take shelter as the room was swaying too much and if he could make it to the basin to vomit or whether he would end up making a mess here in the carpet, that beloved voice sounded behind him.

"Holmes"

SH ... JW ... SH ... JW ... SH ... JW ... SH

Watson had panicked initially upon coming across the empty bed. Forcing himself to calm down, he figured that Holmes wouldn't ... couldn't have gone far in the past ten minutes.

Cursing himself for leaving his friend alone in his present state he rushed out of the bed room and into the living room, hoping that Holmes would be there.

He was.

Only ... he shouldn't be. Swaying on the carpet with an arm curled around his stomach, the detective looked absolutely pasty and sweaty in the meagre light.

"Holmes" Watson called out.

Holmes spun around and his momentum would have sent him to the ground if it hadn't been for Watson rushing to catch Holmes.

With one hand around Holmes' waist and the other holding his arm which was thrown around Watson's shoulder, Watson did all he could to keep both Holmes and himself standing. Forced to take nearly all of the weak man's weight Watson stumbled to the couch in an attempt to get the other man to lay down.

But Holmes didn't want to let go. "Are you going to leave me, Watson?" Holmes mumbled, eyes already half closed.

"Never, old cock" Watson said. With a sigh he gave up trying to remove himself from Holmes' grasp. And adjusted them into a more comfortable position.

And when Mrs.Hudson came upstairs with two bowls of soup and plates of dinner an hour later, she smiled softly to see Watson sleeping with his cheek on Holmes' head which was resting on the doctor's chest, their hands and legs tangled together.

Softly placing the plate on the table beside the sofa, she covered the two friends with a blanket and placing a kiss on their foreheads, left as quietly as she had come.


	7. Epilogue

_Hi guys, this was a totally unplanned epilogue. It's very light-hearted, contrary to the other chapters. Hope you like it. It's pretty long._

 _Also this is the end of the story. Can you believe it? I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I loved writing it. Also Thankyou to all the readers, favourited and followers. You literally encouraged me to keep writing._

 _And not to forget my wonderful reviewers,_ _ellie.elle.elle, corynutz, Shadowvixen89 and Wonderwomon._

 _Wonderwomon since I can't PM you here's my reply : I'm really glad you loved the story and I'm touched that it brought you to tears. And thankyou for the wonderful idea for publishing the story. And for Holmes being brought to Mrs. Hudson's room, I admit I never thought of that. But I guess Holmes would be more comfortable in familiar surroundings. But thankyou for the tip. And thankyou again for that wonderful review._

 _Corynutz : Thankyou for your sweet review. I loved it._

 _Ellie and Shadowvixen : I know I PMed you but thankyou again anyway._

 _And for all the readers out there if there is anything you want me to write a story on, I'd love to take prompts._ _I can write Sherlock (BBC), Sherlock Holmes, Lord of the Rings, Harry Potter, Avengers (MCU) fanfics._

 _Now on to the epilogue. Enjoy ..._

Epilogue

(Brothers not in blood, but in bond)

It was just another normal day. Atleast as normal as it gets in the life of one John Watson.

Watson groaned and sat up in his bed, squinting at the time in the meagre light from the candle.

It was 2:18. In the morning.

He was going to kill Sherlock Holmes.

With another groan he flopped back onto his bed in an attempt to get back to sleep ... in vain.

It had been nearly two weeks since Holmes was stabbed and he was nearly back to normal.

That is if the crashes and bangs downstairs were any indication.

Muttering curses and profanities under his breath, Watson rolled off his bed and stomped down the stairs into his and Holmes' living room.

And there was the great Sherlock Holmes in all his glory.

Well, glory was a gross overstatement. He was wrapped up in his tattered dressing gown, his hair resembling one of the worst kinds of bird's nests, waddling through piles of newspapers, plates still full of stale food, letters, important evidences ("extracted" from crime scenes), tobacco ash and all types of clothes strewn about carelessly.

As Watson watched, mouth slightly agape, the detective, who was now resembling a mix of a child in search of its parent and an old man who has had too much to drink, slipped on a forgotten marble and landed with a thud on his arse.

This (unfortunately for Watson) gave him a view of the doctor standing in the doorway.

"Watson !!! What are you doing up so early? I didn't think you were an early riser. Come in and join me, old boy. I was just having a slight recap of all that I've missed in the past week. Utterly dull. It seems that the criminal network of London was officially on holiday for the past couple of weeks. And the one murder committed was so careless that even the Scotland Yard idiots have found out the criminal. Maybe the bed rest you absolutely insisted that I take had its uses after all. For now I am fit as a fiddle to go to some far off countries in search of crimes to solve."

Holmes would have gone on and on about his plans to desert London, if Watson had not interrupted him by throwing a crumpled ball of a month old newspaper which (what with Watson having been a soldier with a perfect aim) rebounded off Holmes' nose.

The expression on Holmes' face was quite comical and despite his annoyance at the detective, Watson's mouth curled into a smug and amused smirk.

Maneuvering around the mess as best as he could, he stood in front of the now scowling Holmes and crossing his arms, said "Holmes, do you know what the time is?"

Sighing at Holmes' confused stare, he said "It's 2:30 in the bloody morning. What the hell are you doing blundering about at this time and interrupting my first real sleep I've had in two weeks?"

And it was true. During the time of Holmes' healing the doctor had taken naps in the armchair so as to be near his friend if he was needed. And he was needed lots of times. For most of the days Holmes had been battling a fever and hallucinations brought on by it. Only the past three or four days had he well enough to get out of bed and loiter about.

A look of guilt flashed in Holmes' eyes and he looked at the floor.

"I'm sorry for being a burden, Watson" Holmes mumbled.

Watson sat down on the floor next to Holmes.

"Come now, Holmes. You know that I am not angry with you. I am just tired. But don't ever think that you are a burden. You are my best friend and you always will be."

Holmes smiled in relief and said, "So are you, my dear Watson."

They grinned at each other.

"Now then. You asked me what I was doing Watson. I was actually looking for the gift" said Holmes.

"Gift? What are you talking about, Holmes?" Watson asked him, confused.

"Aha! Here it is. This, dear boy, is a present to you, to appreciate all that you have done for me during the past weeks ... and before. You know, since you became my friend" Holmes declared, brandishing a plain black box.

Watson received the box carefully with trepidation and curiosity.

"Don't worry. There's nothing of harm in there. Open it, Watson."

"Holmes, your definition of harm and mine vary a lot."

But unable to contain his curiosity any longer, he popped open the lid.

WHAM.

Watson let out a (manly) shriek, his hands coming up to clasp his injured eye.

Watson stared at the previously innocent box which now had a rubber fist bobbing about attached to a spring.

Then slowly he turned to look at Holmes who was goggling at the box, his eyes wide.

With a gulp, the detective raised his eyes to meet Watson's.

"Watson, in my own defence ... " was as far as he got before the doctor pounced.

"A gift ... you ... said" PUNCH. SHATTER.

"I got ... the wrong ... box" THUD. SCREECH.

"I'm ... going ... to murder ... you" CLATTER. SMASH.

"I'm ... injured" PUNCH. BANG.

Breathing hard the two friends stood at the opposite ends of couch's armrest.

"That's why I aimed for your face and not your stomach" Watson smirked.

"Anyway ... I gave you the wrong box. The real gift is over there" said Holmes, pointing to the table. Seeing Watson's scowl, he added, "Alright, alright. I'll check it again."

Holmes stumbled to the table and opening the other black box, peered inside.

"There, see? It's harmless"

Watson accepted it and opening the box, he gasped.

For inside was a wooden carving of Holmes and Watson, hands clasped together, pointing a gun towards an imaginary criminal.

And at the bottom was scrawled ' _Brothers not in blood, but in bond_ '.

Gently and with reverence, Watson took it out.

"Holmes, it's ... beautiful. It really is. Did you make it yourself?"

"Well, seeing as I had nothing else to do during the past couple of days ... "

He was interrupted by a hug. Silently they stood in each other's arms, enjoying the moment.

As they parted, footsteps echoed rapidly and Inspector Lestrade came in.

"Mr.Holmes, doctor Watson. There's been a murder, sirs. Two in fact. No sign of a break in. But it ain't suicide either. You've got to take the case." Lestrade said.

Grinning, Holmes turned to a likewise grinning Watson.

As one they said, "The game is on."

And they rushed out after the inspector, Watson a little behind, gathering his cane and his and Holmes' revolver.

And the carving stood on the mantelpiece, a symbol of their everlasting friendship.


End file.
